


The Passing of Time

by IsurvivedReichenbach221B



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsurvivedReichenbach221B/pseuds/IsurvivedReichenbach221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starts teenlock but goes into adulthood.  POV changes with the name at the top. Let me know if it gets confusing at any time. Starts slow but then gets a bit faster. More story line than smut, but smut will happen later. ~When John first moves to town, he doesn't like Sherlock one bit and they constantly argue. After graduating, getting shot in war, and becoming a doctor, John comes back to find Sherlock has made quiet a person of himself. Kinda true to BBC series. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving

_John_

John Watson was a normal kid. He lived a normal life with absolutely nothing that was unique or different. He was no special name, no special person to stop and gawk at on the street. His grades in school were just barely above average and he hung out with friends just like any normal kid.

The absolute most un-average thing that happened to John was during his 8th year of school, going into the bigger grades next year, when his mother came into his room towards the end of the year. She sighed heavily and had him sit on the bed. He immediately knew something was up considering her demeanor but he couldn't for the life of him, guess what it was.

"I know that you love your life here, John, but I have some bad news. Your father has gotten really good at his job and they wanted to move him to a different branch, to kind of help out with keeping it up. Do you understand?"

"Yeah..." He drawled the word out, uncertain to where she was going with this.

"We just want you to know that we love you and plenty of other kids have to go through with this."

"You and dad aren't divorcing are you? Because this is not the conversation that should lead to that. Just saying. You might want to rethink a few of the bits." She was slack-jawed, looking at her son. He seemed beyond irate and she didn't know what to do.

"No... no, we aren't divorcing. We're moving, John."

For the next few weeks, he didn't know how to feel about it. It was a type of numb feeling that sank from his head to his toes. He enjoyed football practice as usual but the moment it was over, he was back to brooding. When any of his friends asked why he wasn't up to par, like usual, he just shrugged and walked off.

"After school, in the beginning of summer, we'll move. It'll be okay because you should have plenty of time to get used to the kids. Try and make new friends." She'd tried to reassure him but he'd stopped responding, an almost permanent look of anger on his face when she left his room. Not one apology from her because, honestly, she wasn't sorry. And he was actually not that horrifically mad about it.

Sure, he'd miss his school, friends, team, but he liked new places and new things. Even better, the town he was moving to wasn't horribly far away. What had she called it? Baskersville? Yeah, that was it.

After brooding a few weeks before calming down and actually done the smart thing, realizing he couldn't change the future no matter how much of a fit he threw, he'd looked the town up online. It was plentiful with kids his age, of course. Their team seemed amazing but he hoped they'd be welcome to outsiders. He'd hate to move and quite football because of the stupid jocks that thought they were better than any outsider.

Humorously, after contemplating the whole thing, he realized the only thing that made him mad, really, was the thought that he may not be able to play football.

At dinner, two weeks before school was to be out, he said exactly that to his parents. His mother sighed in utter relief and his father smiled, as if he'd known all along his boy would figure out the move wouldn't kill him.

"I'm so happy you decided it would be for the best. I've heard such great things about Baskersville. Don't worry about fitting in to football, if the kids are mean to you you can just show them how a Watson handles bullies." His father said and John smiled menacingly at the thought of punching a self-centered jock right in the face.

It was settled and the house was locked exactly 11 days after school was let out for the summer. John had all of his things packed and half way to their new house before he'd climbed into the family car and they were on their way. The moving truck was hired by his father's work, in order to make the stress of moving less difficult.

They arrived with plenty of light left, but they were still busy unpacking for almost a whole week. John was expected to do his own room, as well as his own bathroom. John hadn't been told his room would have it's own bathroom, which just made him all the more happier.

The house itself wasn't too impressive, aside from the personal bathroom of his. Everything else was basically normal and regular sized.

John spent a fairly long time over the summer going out and trying to socialize. Amazingly, to the joy of his parents, he found a few kids during out-of-school practice that liked him enough to start hanging out when practice wasn't up and about.

His parents got him signed up right away, but he was informed that, even though he was accepted, he most likely wouldn't be able to participate in any games until next season. John laughed and said he'd didn't give half a damn.

"So long as I'm in and practicing for next year, I don't care." The coach, surprised at the head-strong words of such a young kid, let the boy practice with the rest of the team. Even before school started, John was no longer worried about not fitting in or being bullied. He was in the "in crowd" even before he knew what the school looked like on the inside.


	2. Deducing

_Sherlock_

Just like every school year, Sherlock sat on the steps at the front of the school. He watched the kids go through the door, chatting about their petty issues or happy little lives. While he simply looked on.

Mycroft, his brother, was off somewhere, with a friend or two of his. They sniveled about and looked down their noses at every single person, even the teachers. If they committed a crime, Sherlock was almost certain they would get away with it, even if they were caught red handed. Simply by staring the teachers down.

The thought made Sherlock smirk but he hid it behind his hands, bowing his head down behind the collars of his coat. He did this often, for it was easier to block people out. And he desperately needed to do so.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut almost painfully, against a headache that was starting. For as long as he could remember, he got headaches. It happened if he fought his gift too long and he always fought it at school. It hurt and he wished he could throw it away just like a piece of trash. But, alas, he was cursed and therefore damned to life with what his parents called a gift.

Because Mycroft Holmes, the big honcho on campus was his older brother, he didn't worry about getting picked on. A few years back, the jocks thought it was the most hilarious thing to take his possessions or clothes and hide them, as well as other stupid, childish pranks. Sherlock never told his brother, but rather Mycroft walked in on a group of three bulky jocks attempting a swirly. A few hard punches and swift kicks ended the torment and he made it very clear that his little brother was untouchable.

Sherlock didn't give half a flying flap, for sure, but he allowed Mycroft to play the overprotective brother simply because it helped with the headaches. Sherlock had honestly been wagering with himself, a type of bet, as to who of the three jocks was the strongest, most mean. He never got the chance due to Mycroft coming in at this point and Sherlock had been right mad at the time but eventually, about 30 seconds, realized it was for the best.

Snapping out of his revere, Sherlock looked up and relaxed his head. It was almost as easy as releasing a pen from your fingers. He didn't want to fight it so early in the day on the first day of school. So he let his eyes roam, let the words of the world passing by spin inside his head. Each word and fact he already knew since he'd been around these people for years. His brain functioned like a computer, analyzing every new book bag, new book, new hairstyle, old friends, abused couples, happy couples, dumped girls or boys, overheated jocks, nerds looking over their schedules and already planning out the whole year by day, if not hour. He saw Gothics hanging out with Gothics, having a smoke before school started.

One of the Gothics had new clothes that went all the way down his arms, when last year he wore short sleeves, which would only suggest he changed his mind about clothes or started cutting. Judging by how the Gothic boy babied the wrists of his hands, Sherlock deduced it was the latter.

He let it all spill into him, filling his brain and then settling into his memory, unable to stop the flow. He looked to the front of the school, saw kids migrating inwards. He figured he might as well start. As he started, he saw Mycroft and immediately looked away. It was a sore spot for his older brother, knowing the intelligence his baby brother had. Sherlock had promised he'd never, ever read Mycroft like he did the other kids.

Honestly, he'd tried his damned hardest to keep his word but every now and then he couldn't, for the life of him, stop it. If Mycroft walked into the kitchen after a long, painful day, Sherlock could see things about him he didn't want to see. It was best to just look away rather than see something that Mycroft would immediately know Sherlock had seen.

When he was possibly five yards away, Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Jocks stood by the doors, pushing each other around. Each face was familiar and all the words or secrets that floated into his head was already known. Except one.

Blond hair, ruffled at the edges but not curly. Sherlock guessed if it grew long enough, it would have a wave. Eyes that reminded him of the clear blue ocean. He was muscular enough to be in sports but not too muscular as to suggest unhealthy means. What had caught Sherlock's eyes most of all was the first ever time he didn't get words. Or phrases. Or pictures. Sure, he could tell the age, that he was in football, that he had friends, that he was new, he knew where he came from and even that he didn't style his hair like that, it just happened.

Aside from those simple, meaningless facts, Sherlock got nothing. He had never in his life or memory gotten so little about someone. The boy wasn't even looking at Sherlock, but was facing him just enough to know lack of vision wasn't the problem. For some reason, this kid was a mystery to the gift Sherlock carried.

He watched as the jocks entered the school, horsing around only enough to not be considered reckless. He stood perfectly still until he heard the first warning bell and then he bolted, running through the doors and down the hall to his locker.

Sherlock Holmes was three minutes late for class.


	3. School Passing

_John_

Sherlock Holmes. What name was that, John wondered. It was one of the most absurd names he'd ever heard, quiet possibly the most. Unfortunately for John, however, that was his partner in medical sciences. He didn't know what the kid looked like, but it was on the sheet the teacher gave out as he walked into the room. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be in such a high class at his level, but he'd passed tests in order to prove he was ready, as well as jump the other, lesser classes in order to excel early towards his life goal.

John wanted more than anything in the world to be a doctor. Sometimes, his mother would joke about how he'd steal the pediatrics stethoscope or any other instrument, and attempt to take it home by way of throwing a tantrum whenever he had to give it back. By his fifth birthday, his parents had bought him his own set of doctor tools to which he constantly examined his parents.

In class, currently, he took notes as if his life depended on it. Around him, most students were in their last two years, or last year, of school and were taking the class for an easy credit. John vowed not to give his homework or notes to any of the sad looking teenagers.

Half way through the class, he paused to take a few deep breaths and rotate his wrists. It was hard writing virtually everything the teacher said. Oftentimes a point or two was lost but that was why he had a textbook, one in which he copied by hand during free periods or after hanging out with friends.

As he rotated his wrist, John actually looked up. He had an odd, tingling feeling and he turned to look over his shoulder. Near the back of the class, for he'd picked a front row seat, a kid was looking at him. Rather intently. John narrowed his eyes, not sure what to make of the boy. His hair was dark and curlier than most girls' hairs he'd seen. His eyes, from what he could tell, were sharp and possibly blue. He wore a coat, though it wasn't tremendously chilly outside, let alone in the classroom. The coat was turned up around his neck, hiding most of his features from neck down. Bony fingers pointed out of the sleeves, resting upon the desk. As if the boy had nothing better to do, his eyes narrowed right back, not breaking eye contact.

As he did so, a stray dark curl slipped and landed almost perfectly upon the bridge of his nose. The boy went cross eyed and stared at the clump before raising a hand and ever-so-gently placed it back into its place among the curls. Once satisfied it wouldn't bounce back down, he continued his staring at John.

Feeling prickles of unease rise the hair along his back and neck, John turned around and tried his absolute hardest to ignore the strange boy. It would do no good to start a fight with some random asshole kid in the middle of class. Let alone first day of school.

As the time went by, John forgot about the kid in the back. Once class was over, he waited only a few moments as the traffic of the kids slowed so he could leave easier. He rose from his chair only to start violently, almost dropping his books. The kid from the back was right behind his desk, staring at him. The last kids from the class filed out, leaving just them two and the teacher.

"Hello." The kid drawled, his voice deeper than John's would have expected. For a moment, he was stunned at the height and overall bad feeling he got from him.

"Hi," he finally managed to say, feeling beyond awkward.

"My name is Sherlock. I suppose you are John Watson."

"Oh you're him!" John exclaimed suddenly. The loudness filling the quiet room startled the teacher, who would have otherwise let the boys do what they wanted so long as they behaved, glared at them.

"Yes, I'm your partner for the year." Sherlock's voice was deep, and borderline bored. John would probably not be surprised if Sherlock yawned.

"Okay," John replied, unsure what Sherlock was attempting. They didn't have to do anything for class since it was first day, therefore there was no need to introduce themselves.

"I figured you should know, being new and all. Also, I am capable of doing my work on my own. I won't let you ride on my intellect, therefore if you find yourself incapable of doing the work, don't snivel your way over to me." Sherlock's voice had lowered to a dangerous octave. John felt both threatened and insulted.

"I hope your intellect," John practically hissed the word, "doesn't get in my way of doing my work." Both boys stared at each other for a few more minutes before a bell rang and Sherlock stiffened, walking past John as if he were a homeless man who smelt of cigarette and booze.

John, more insulted than he could remember being, left the classroom and headed to his locker to snatch his next set of books.

Thankfully, the only classes John had to share with Sherlock whom he had already started hating were medical science and PE. John didn't even have to interact with Sherlock at all, and it seemed that not many people did, in fact, desire to interact with the boy. Only a small handful of people had been seen actually talking with Sherlock. Two of which John knew were named Molly and Lestrade. Anderson was sometimes seen in the group but would oftentimes run off for unknown reasons.

The rest of the week passed almost as uneventful as the first day. Except that John found himself having to sit next to Sherlock in his medical science class because they would have to get used to one another. It was hard to even look at the boy let alone sit next to him. He kept hearing huffs and small chuckles from him as the teacher spoke and John was one snicker away from smacking the kid in the face with his textbook by the time the bell rang.

"If you think you're so smart, Sherlock, why don't you just leave the rest of us to learn in peace, huh?" John said suddenly at the end of class one day. A few classmates snickered and Sherlock stared completely devoid of expression at John who started feeling uncomfortable and left, calling the boy a weirdo in the process.


	4. The Years in Turns

_Both_

As the year progressed, both boys would continue to bother one another. Being forced to work together didn't help since both boys new the material and assumed the other didn't due to downright dislike of one another. They were often seen fighting about how to go about the project and the teacher would always receive two papers or projects of the same material almost the same exact grade.

After football started, John cared less and less about Sherlock and their projects and actually stopped trying to fight, rather gave his input and if Sherlock took it, good. If not, oh well. Sherlock always wrote John's name on the pieces he helped with, or attempted to help with.

When school got out, the boys saw nothing of one another, not even passing by in the street. John was now completely and utterly over having moved. He barely even spoke to his old friends anymore, for he was too busy with his new ones.

By the time the second year came, John was ready for anything. Sherlock felt his life was spiraling downward because he realized his older brother would graduate at the end of the year. As the year came to a slow halt, John realized he'd only had lunch period with Sherlock all year and that was okay. No need to have a partner in work that wouldn't be willing to actually work. Not that John wanted to work with him anyway.

During the summer, Sherlock went with Mycroft to visit colleges for about a month and a half. When his continuing education was decided, Sherlock spent the rest of the summer at home, learning the violin and avoiding the outside world.

Third year began and to Sherlock's utter delight, not a single person decided he was worth their time to pick on. He'd thought maybe the disappearance of his older brother would bring about the appearance of tormentors. He had been most happily wrong.

John and Sherlock had a study hall together as well as a math class and history. During Math class, Sherlock constantly tried correcting the teacher. During history class, Sherlock constantly made annoying, bored sounds. John was straight back to wanting to beat the kid with a textbook well within the first month of school.

They fought, John would yell at Sherlock to shut his face and Sherlock would tell him to grow bigger ears, if it were possible, so he could hear of Sherlock. A few times, they were sent to the office for disruptive behaviors. By the end of the school year, they were not sent to the office but merely separated to different seats.

As the last day ended, John and Sherlock sat in silence next to each other, glaring more than usual. Sherlock had told the teacher that the relevance of the solar system was null and he should simply delete it from his and everyone else's mind. John had called him a tosser and they were now forced to suffer each others' silence until the end of the day.

The summer was as uneventful as ever, honestly. The boys never laid eyes on each other once for Sherlock spent most hours studying his instruments, languages, or other work his parents could come up with to keep his racing mind busy. John was out with friends, playing his life away for the last summer.


	5. The Last Year

_Sherlock_

The last year of their school fell upon them like a thick blanket it summer, trapping them with nowhere to run. John was upset because he had already agreed not to do football so as to study on his work. He had already applied for a few colleges. Sherlock on the other hand tried his hardest to avoid college, saying he already knew everything they would teach him and it would be pointless to pay for Sherlock to yell at teachers.

In the end, after talking with Mycroft, Sherlock applied for two.

Mycroft had visited shortly in the summer. He didn't spend much time with Sherlock, only helping make decisions for colleges. There was no reason for Mycroft to suspect that John Watson was anymore in his little brothers life, since all he'd heard during his last years were rumors of the boys not getting along. He'd inquired to Sherlock about the situation but Sherlock had laughed and said there was nothing to the plain boy.

Currently, Sherlock was in school for his last first day. He was so into thinking about his gift, for he'd decided to figure out what he should do with the rest of his life, that he didn't notice when John walked into his first class.

John found the boy and, though he hadn't meant to make a big deal out of their seemingly pointless arguments, groaned aloud. Sherlock looked up, his eyes lighting upon John's face. Over the summer, he'd grown a bit taller but not much. Maybe two inches. His hair was a little longer. And he had new clothes. Sherlock still couldn't make out the kid and, seeing as how they'd butted heads for three years, didn't see a need to.

The teacher motioned John to take a seat. John sat as possibly far from Sherlock as he could with most seats being taken. As teachers are won't to do, they believe befriending your entire class is essential. Since their class was Advanced Biology II, a class only taken by last year students so John and Sherlock had to wait, both boys new what was coming next.

"Sherlock Holmes, your partner will be John Watson. Get along, you two. I want only one assignment total. If I receive two, you will both get a failing grade." Sherlock, stunned, looked over to John who couldn't possibly look more mortified. After the teacher called the rest of the groups out, she told them to switch around so they sat together.

Sherlock and John both got up and picked a spot somewhere in the middle of each original desk. Neither boy looked at one another. For the life of him, though, Sherlock couldn't remember why he disliked John so much.

Thankfully, as both boys found out, it was the only class they shared.

A few weeks after the start of the year, they were given an assignment they had to do together. When the bell rang they sat together for a few moments longer before Sherlock decided to just go for it. What was the worst possible thing that could happen?

"I can do whatever needs being done." He started. John eyed him without expression which gave Sherlock a bit of courage. "While you're busy with every thing else, I'll just do the work. I can fill you in later." Sherlock paused at the look of irritation and disgust in John's eyes.

"Honestly, you think I'm such a big idiot, don't you? Just because I'm not as smart as you." His eyes narrowed and Sherlock steeled himself, knowing what was coming next. He'd heard it so many times. "They told me you're so obnoxious and full of yourself because you see shit. Well news flash, Sherlock bloody Holmes, I'm not an idiot and I'll do my own damn work and you can read it when I'm done!"

John stomped out of the room, huffing like he'd just gone through a fight. The teacher walked over and grabbed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Do you know the material?" She asked gently. Sherlock nodded carefully, looking into her eyes. He saw words sprout out of her like jumping ants.

Caring, loving, motherly, hurt, sympathy, loves dogs, married young, two miscarriages, troubled marriage, hasn't smoked in almost three years, loves her job, easily attached.

Sherlock blinked and the words, dozens of them, faded away. She really cared, really believed Sherlock was trying.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay, then I want you to prove it to me. If John does all the work, I want you to write a similar report to me. If he doesn't, I want you to do it for him. If you each do half, tell me which parts you did. John is under a lot of stress because school isn't easy for him like it is for you." She smiled warmly, her eyes like two brown coals of warmth.

"I'll do my best, ma'am." Sherlock promised and she smiled, accepting the terms.

John never found out about the deal Sherlock had with their teacher and he never slacked on the homework. Sherlock had to always write a report about the same material because John would not only do the work correctly, but early. They talked not a syllable more than they needed to for the class and over the course of the last few months, Sherlock grew utterly disdainful of the boy.

Though knowing he could do nothing about it, Sherlock kept his thoughts and feelings to himself and just continued on with his work.

"I'd say it was nice knowing you, but it really wasn't." John said in a normal tone to Sherlock on their last day of school. They were just getting ready to enter the buss's for home. Sherlock frowned, eyebrows furrowed.

"Knowing you and your company was in no way pleasurable to me, either." Sherlock retorted and both boys went their separate ways, figuring they'd never lay eyes on each other again.


	6. Eight Years in Passing

_John_

Right before college, John got into a hard fight with his father. It was known very well that his sister, Harry, was living with her girlfriend. Long before they'd moved to Baskersville, she'd been kicked out for bringing her girlfriend home to the family. John's father was deeply homophobic and had a fear his son was just as gay as his daughter. The two men fought for almost a whole week very loudly until John's mother demanded it be ended.

John enlisted in the army the next day. His father, too prideful to tell his son how proud he was at the decision, let John leave for duty without a word since the fight.

Tragically for their relationship, John signed a contract with the army for schooling. He had to do four years of medical college that would be fully paid for if he went into the ranks for four more years.

For his college years, John passed with flying colors. He kept in contact with his mother regularly but he not once spoke a word to his father.

"He loves you, you know."

"Tell him I say hi."

By the time John went into the ranks, his mother no longer mentioned his father over the phone.

"I'll see you when I get back. Promise." He'd said more than one occasion as he packed. She'd come to visit him in the small flat he was staying at. Tears were in her eyes but he kept a straight face against his own sadness at leaving her. "I'll be fine."

"You're right?"

"Of course, Mum."

He was dispatched and, except for a few letters scattered over the years, John was not heard from by his family, or anyone else for that matter, for four years. Upon receiving a gunshot wound to the shoulder and losing his entire regiment, he was brought home to heal. Instead of informing his family, John healed in silence and solitude for almost six months. By the time he came to his parents house, he realized they'd received word of his injury, but no further information. The first twenty minutes was spent being held inside of his fathers arms.

By the encouragement of his family, John sought out counseling for his reoccurring nightmares. He was right quickly diagnosed with PTSD. He refused medication. Shortly after refusing medication, he decided that attempting to move on would be the best thing for him.

Taking a stroll, limping upon his cane, John walked through the part. He saw a friend sitting on a bench not too far from his path so he ventured his direction. About three yards away, his friend turned and smiled warmly.

"John!" The man cried out, pulling John into a large, careful hug. He eyed the cane and dull pained look in his old friends eyes. "What have you been up to?"

"Not, much, really, Oliver. Uhm, got back from war almost a year ago. They don't like broken soldiers, I guess." John laughed at the comment, even though it was pointed at him. Oliver chuckled back, glad his friend could at least joke about it.

"Come, sit." They sat upon a bench not far from where Oliver had been standing, apparently feeding some birds. The two men chatted, catching up on the basics of life from the last few years of their lives.

Oliver mentioned how he was a teacher at their old high school, sciences. How he hated the hell out of the kids, ungrateful bastards. Both men chuckled at the thought that they'd been the same way. John mentioned how he'd been looking for a flat mate and Oliver brightened up.

"Really? I have someone who was complaining how he couldn't keep a flat mate. His last one apparently dropped from the flat under pretense of going to be with his lady friend."

"I don't know. The flat I'm in is only good until the end of the month. I haven't been working, either, so maybe I should."

"I bet it'd be fine. He already has a place." Oliver pulled out a small notepad from one of his coat pockets and wrote an address down. He handed it to John who folded it in half and stuck it into his pocket. "Be there whenever, the landlady spends most of her free time a the building. You'll love it. I have to head back. I left a few of the kids alone and..." He trailed off, waving his hands slowly, dramatically in wavy circles.

John chuckled and nodded, rising stiffly with a large amount of help from his cane. The two men parted ways, John wishing his friend luck with the students.

John sighed heavily, looking up at the apartment. It was in a fairly decent area of London, most likely expensive. Hopefully the roommate was fairly good in his job.

Without leaving time to really think about it any more, he knocked. After barely half a minute a woman, fairly old but looking quiet spry, opened the door. She looked at him and suddenly her face lit up with a smile.

"You must be John! Ollie rang and mentioned you would visit! It's about the apartment, isn't it? Quiet a beautiful place though the man-I forget his name, dear me-says it'll look much better with his things. I told him quiet right, since he'd be living here. I hope you like it, I enjoy it myself..." John tuned her out, nodding every now and then to act as if he were listening. She kept rattling on as she took him up the stairs, of which he was fairly slow but could manage.

At the top, he looked around and smiled softly at the actual apartment, the door ajar. She had pushed through and John walked in, gazing about. It was quiet spacious, very well built. The wallpaper was different on every side of the living room but he didn't mind. Down a short hallway, the woman gestured up some stairs, mentioning how it was a second bedroom if he decided to stay. She showed him the bedroom on the main floor, of which he'd have to convince his flatmate to switch, given his leg.

By the end of the tour, John was seriously considering signing for the flat.

"Why do you think a man with a bum leg like me could help keep this place affordable? Is the other man rich?"

"Oh, no, no. I owe him a favor and I said if he can get a flatmate to stay with him this time-I am quiet aware of what happened in his last flat-that I would give him a discount. I sure hope you say yes, he's a bit rough around the edges but he means well. As well as he can, anyway. You should stick around until he comes by later today, so you can meet him."

"What time, did you say?"

"Oh, he'll be here," she looked at a clock upon the wall and smiled warmly. "In less than half hour. Right at five. My how the time passed. I rang him earlier to let him know you were expected to stop by and he agreed to come as early as he could. He told me he was caught up in something at the school with some sort of experiment, he says." She waved a hand in the air. "Come downstairs and we can wait for him with tea." She started walking down the stairs without waiting for a reply from John, who smiled softly and followed her at his own pace. He was starting to like this woman. He could tell she was nice and kind.

At the bottom, he followed her into a room he could only guess was her personal flat. Sure enough, she looked more than a little at home with the brightness of the flat. Everywhere he looked was nice and tidy, most everything in the apartment bright, happy colors. He loved how sparkling her kitchen was as he sat at the small table and she busied herself making tea.

"You never did tell me your name." John commented and she burst out laughing.

"Oh, dear me, I was so busy rambling. You can all me Mrs. Hudson, though my husband is dead."


	7. All Grown Up

**I know there are a lot of pieces I didn't go over and some details that are not absolutely necessary for the story but if you want me to add them later, as a filler chapter of some sort, I will. I didn't add Sherlock's view on seeing John again for the first time for a reason, I'm doing it weird later.**

**Also, this is confusing because I'm trying not to write about what happened between them in the BBC series, yet I'm adding it in and I forget if I've written a piece already or not... Just let me know if I'm being dumb about it.**

* * *

_Sherlock_

Sherlock was at the flat 221 B Baker Street at precisely five in the afternoon. He was absolutely positive he was not going to enjoy the next few hours, regardless of how long it took John to run out of the flat. It would be a few hours of absolute silence to recover from the anger the two of them had blasted at one another almost eight years ago.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock knocked. Mrs. Hudson greeted him with open arms and the delightful sound of her laughter.

"He's here, just like you said he would be. Stayed to have tea with me, he did. And," her voice dropped to a whisper, "I didn't mention your name like you wanted. Though he's such a nice boy I don't see why you wouldn't want him to know your name. Such a silly request."

"It was just a thing I desired, Mrs. Hudson, nothing more." She accepted his stiff answer to her curiosity and walked him to her flat, pointing to the kitchen.

"I'll be back in just a jiffy. Let you two greet and all." She disappeared out her own front door. The amount of trust she had in Sherlock almost surprised him, but he enjoyed it compared to the senseless dislike from everyone else.

Sherlock walked into the room and found John sitting facing the doorway, head bowed over a cuppa. Sherlock was actually, downright stunned. He'd known John had been in a stitch and needed a place, Oliver had said, but he'd not told him exactly what had happened.

His shoulders were broader, his body had filled out to the awkward angles his teen years had stubbornly kept onto. His hands were roughened, like he hadn't had a right day off in years. The cane, as well, leaning against the table was a shock. Sherlock noted a bit of a tan on his wrists, the way he held himself in the chair. His hair was cropped generously close to his head as opposed to his years as a youth. The man had been to war. Recently.

John almost immediately looked up when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. His eyes were much more fascinating than before: stories of pain and torment flitted through the dark blues. Sherlock found it difficult to think of all the fights and arguments and struggles the two had in school. The man before him was nothing like the man who he'd graduated with. Except, maybe, the sharp slap of irritation that flashed through his features as he realized who stood before him.

"You'll have to excuse Mrs. Hudson, John. I asked her to withhold my name from you for a reason. I wanted you to feel for the apartment before down right saying no." Sherlock walked into the room, studying John's reaction. Disbelief was evident more than anything else. Sherlock sat in the chair opposite.

"If I had known it was you..." Sherlock drew a hand up, cutting John off.

"I know. You would have told Oliver to sod off and never speak of me again. I'm asking you to consider the flat for a very good reason, John."

"What would that be?"

"It's cheap, in a great place, and you'd have a flat."

"Oliver mentioned to you that I was in need, didn't he?"

"No. You did just now." Sherlock saw spots of red light up John's face and he mentally kicked himself. He was supposed to be getting a flat mate, not gaining another person to hate him. "Before you tell me to shove it up my arse, let me take you for dinner. I know a lovely restaurant. You and I can talk over details and," Sherlock glanced at the cane, "you can even negotiate me to take the bedroom upstairs."

John was quiet but Sherlock could see him thinking, actually debating with himself about the offer. He could tell it wasn't just the prospect of dinner otherwise he'd have agreed readily. Sherlock could tell that John had grown into a kind man, albeit stubborn, and would not take the offer of food without meaning to honestly think about sharing the flat.

Despite needing John to be certain, Sherlock grew restless. John watched as Sherlock's fingers danced across his leg. Sherlock knew the absolute second John decided to say maybe.

"Okay, we'll talk." Both men rose and slowly made their way outside. Mrs. Hudson came down from 221 B just in time to see them calmly leave the flat. She smiled warmly, having a good feeling about them.

_John_

Sherlock blood Holmes. The man was a lunatic and a right twat. He'd humiliated John in school, acting like John was just another imbecile who couldn't do his work. He had attempted to suggest he ride on Sherlock's shoulders and do none of the work. Well, John had shown him. He'd not only passed the class but had passed through college and done something with his life. Until, obviously, he'd been shot.

Now he was very fond of both the flat and Mrs. Hudson and along comes Sherlock to ruin everything. But, he had to admit, the man had changed.

In school, he'd been lanky and too skinny, shy and completely absorbed with himself. Now he was still skinny but there was such a deep intelligence in his eyes that John couldn't ignore. It had been visible in their young years but it was so prominent now that John was almost intimidated by it. Not to mention that he was taller, hair longer. The coat he wore was honestly the exact same everything from the coat in school, except bigger size for his length. The scarf was new and good on him, John had to admit. Not to mention the fact that something about the man was pulling him like a magnet.

It was unsure what this thing was, it felt small and almost pointless, but John was curious anyways.

He had agreed to dinner solely to see if the two of them could possibly get along now that all the competing school work was out of the way. Maybe he could even tell Sherlock how much of a twat he'd been in school. Not that John was aware Sherlock probably thought John had been a twat as well.

Regardless, John realized half way to the restaurant, as he sat next to Sherlock in the back of a cab, that he'd agreed he would at least listen. He wasn't one to take food for free or to back out on a deal.


	8. Over Diner

_John_

So he sat at the lovely table, as Sherlock had promised it would be, and looked over the menu. The expensiveness of the food was beyond unnecessary. Lovely apparently meant cutting a limb off for good food.

"Sherlock, honestly, we don't need to eat here. I could afford the rent at regular price with the amount it would cost to feed us here." John breathed, not wanting to be rude. Sherlock stared at him, thinking. Considering his words.

"We can go somewhere else if you would feel more comfortable."

"Somewhere cheaper, maybe?"

"The amount it costs does not matter. I'll have my brother take care of it."

"Brother? Mycroft?" John almost paled at remembering his brother from school. The man had been cold enough to melt water at a glance. John could only imagine what he was like now.

"Yes. He's acquired a fairly good place inside the government. He wouldn't mind helping me pay a bill for dinner." Sherlock kept his eyes trained on John, bearing into him. John stifled a shudder and looked away.

"No point in wandering off to another restaurant." He breathed, sitting back and grabbing the menu again. John was well aware that Sherlock kept an eye on him, barely looking at the menu.

After they'd ordered, Sherlock placed his hands against his lips, fingers threaded together. It gave him a look of deep thought, especially when he furrowed his brows. John stared for only a few moments before decided it was high time to start talking.

"I don't hate you." He said. Surprised, he clamped his mouth shut. That had not been at all what he'd wanted to say. Granted, he didn't hate Sherlock, but this was not the time to be spilling feelings of poor teenage years all over the table. Sherlock seemed a bit shocked as well, his eyebrows raised.

"I mean, well, I don't but that wasn't what I was going to say." John set is cutlery straight on the table and then cleared his throat, looking up at Sherlock once more. "School was ages ago and we both are adults now, in need of places to live. I'm sure we can come up with something. Agreements about the flat. I will be needing the one on the lower floor of course, given my leg."

"Simply not going to happen. I enjoy being able to have all my things quick at hand." John paused, staring at the man. He'd lowered his hand to his chin in order to talk, his face expressionless.

"But my leg..."

"I don't believe you have a real problem, John. I'll admit your therapist doesn't either."

"How did you know..." John stopped talking, staring at Sherlock. Suddenly, he realized what he'd just gotten himself into. "You're doing that thing again, aren't you? What they used to say you did?"

Sherlock felt himself sink, not physically, towards the floor. John hadn't grown up enough to accept the thoughts outside of his friends from school. He started thinking of where else he could move because Oliver was a good man, but they didn't get along that well outside of the lab Oliver let Sherlock use.

"It's strange." John said, looking at his cutlery again. "Like, what do you even see?" Sherlock looked up, feeling terrified to even believe John had just said that.

"Confusing. Everything was confusing at first, when I was a kid." He said softly, gauging John's reaction. He seemed to be listening intently. "It's really hard to explain. I just see everything about a person. I know everything. My mind is like a hard drive and sometimes I delete things that mean nothing to me in order to make room for necessary things." John stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. Was Sherlock being honest-to-God or bullshitting? It seemed strange to picture the brain as a hard drive, especially one so full that things needed to be deleted. He wondered what Sherlock had thought not good enough to remember.

Their food arrived and Sherlock waited a moment. John eyed him but figured that Sherlock would rather sit and relax and eat than answer more of his silly questions. John didn't know why, but he figured if they were going to attempt to make this work, he'd have to forget about school. Easier said than done.

"We'll uh, keep talking after eating, 'kay?" Sherlock nodded at John and they sat in silence almost a whole half hour as they ate our food. It was utterly delicious, definitely worth the amount it cost.

Moments before they were done, or John should say "he" considering Sherlock had stopped about five minutes prior, a good portion of his food left, his phone rang. He grabbed it, without the slightest bit of an apology- why did John expect one?- and answered. John downright tuned him out, not wanting to listen in on his conversations, even if it was just one sided.

John went to finish his last few bites when he hung up and stood suddenly.

"I will only ask you this once." I looked up at him, his face a mask lacking of emotion and yet completely serious. "I have a case, would you like to accompany me?"

"A case?"

"A murder." Sherlock stared at John and he felt himself feeling more nervous by the second. This was not the teenager John had known and fought with for four years. He was strong, capable, and not shy in any manner of the speaking. Intrigued, John nodded. His eyebrows drew down and I smiled.

"Don't forget to pay." John said as he stood, grabbing his coat. Sherlock's face actually lit up by the small lift of the corners to his lips. He snatched his coat and scarf, which he'd removed during the meal, and tossed enough money onto the table to cover the meal.

Sure John really had no idea what he was getting into, but John was excited. Maybe he'd actually get to know the man behind the jacket. Or behind the scarf. Or behind the young, troubled teen who'd tried to show John up every chance he'd gotten.

Only following the tall, quick man down the street hailing a cab, and time would tell.

John wasn't thinking about the flat while they rode to the crime scene. He was all about why Sherlock was called to it.

"I'm a consulting detective."

"Oh? I wasn't aware it was a job."

"I'm the only one." John was quiet a moment, pondering the fact that Sherlock had literally not wanted any real job, so he'd gone and made one. The stubborn behaviour was amazing.

"About the case. What do they need your help on?"

"A woman was murdered. They are sure she was brought to the scene but they can't figure out where she died or how she was moved. Lestrade is hoping I'll be able to fill in all the empty holes his people missed. It happens quiet often." Sherlock was looking out the window, the small bumps from the road was kicking his hair ever so gently up and down. John was staring at him for a completely different reason.

"Lestrade? Like, school football player Greg Lestrade?"

"Yes, him. He became an officer."

John found it difficult to wrap his mind around this, and yet knew it was completely possible. Lestrade had been ambitious and strong, but John hadn't connected with him since graduating. Which was true for most of their class. Actually, all except Oliver that one time before meeting Sherlock again, John hadn't spoken to a classmate since graduation. Oddly enough, the thought didn't bother him.

"Okay. So what exactly do you do as a consulting detective?"

"Watch and see, John." Sherlock gave a small smile as the cab slowed to a stop, the police cars only a few yards away telling John they were at their destination. As Sherlock got out from the car, John followed slowly. Eventually he found that Sherlock was more than welcome, and that he'd pointed to John and told them he was allowed into the scene. John walked up to Lestrade and while Sherlock roamed around the body that was stuffed into the front of a car, Lestrade and John caught up briefly.


	9. The Case

_John_

It didn't take a genius to realize Lestrade's small talk was obviously not around why John was with Sherlock. John could only assume that he'd had Sherlock help with cases before and now that John was suddenly here, it must have been confusing. Not to mention the limp he had. Lestrade had always commented how good of a runner John was in school.

"I came back from Afghanistan." John suddenly said and Lestrade eyed him. "I was shot and they sent me back. Been recovering but my leg is still not doing so great. Pretty sure when I was shot I landed wrong or twisted it on the fall down." John touched a hand gently to his shoulder that was still tender from the wound, and he figured it would be for a while longer.

"Wow. Uh, that's pretty crazy."

"Not too bad. And for your undying curiosity, Sherlock and I are just catching up."

"You guys hated each other in school, didn't you?"

"That was a long time ago, but yeah. We're trying to see how it'll work. Maybe get a flat." Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "His last roommate apparently left to go be with his girlfriend."

"Knowing Sherlock, he probably drove the man crazy."

"I'm getting that feeling," John chuckled and Lestrade relaxed a small bit, chuckling back. Lestrade seemed a bit more relaxed after having his unasked questions answered. John didn't mind telling his old football friend about it, there was no reason to keep it a secret.

John listened as Lestrade finally told him without holding back exactly what they'd found out. Due to the lack of blood from the deep and long cut the woman died from, which almost made her look like she was smiling from ear to ear, Lestrade was nearly 100% positive the body had been moved. Due to lack of witnesses and blood anywhere in the vicinity not around the vehicle's front door, no one knew where she was actually killed.

"I have a few people making calls, looking out for anyone that may have seen anything. And place possible where a bunch of blood could be. The likelihood of finding it, though, is low. It was guessed she's been dead most of the night." He gestured to their surroundings, which was a fairly unused junk hole. "We were lucky to get a call before she started rotting." John nodded, knowing how far off the main travel spots this particular area was. It would have been nearly flawless to leave a body here and not get caught.

Sherlock stalked up to them then, holding something between two gloved fingers.

"I know where she may have been murdered." He claimed, walking straight past Lestrade. Startled, Lestrade jerked into motion behind Sherlock.

"Where?"

"It's a small park, not too far from here."

"What? How do you figure that?" Lestrade was having trouble keeping up due to being flustered at possibly missing a tremendously large clue. Sherlock spun, showing what was held between his fingers. His long coat fluttered a bit, settling haphazardly about his legs. John eyed the thing between his fingers before frowning deeply, not getting it.

A small petal that looked crumpled and covered mostly in mud, stuck out brightly against Sherlock's pale fingers. The vibrant purple must have caught the consulting detective's eye when it had caught on one else's. John was, honestly, surprised that Sherlock had gathered such a thing, and was more than a bit eager to figure out why that led to a lead.

"This flower is rarely grown in London. It's only placed in particular parks, sometimes homes but rare considering it's difficult to keep them alive. The only park on this side of London known to actually be able to keep them alive this long into the year is less than two miles away." Lestrade blinked rapidly and John smiled. Absolutely amazing, he thought to himself. "It was wedged between two lines in the bottom of her shoes. I can only guess she was walking in the park when she was attacked, or they dragged her through. There's no likely chance she walked hard enough to stick the petal so stiffly to her shoe. As well, her calves don't have the muscles to suggest she stepped heavy."

He spun on his heel and continued walking again. Anderson, a man John didn't recognize but Lestrade swore up and down they'd been to school together, took the petal from him, sticking it into a baggie. Lestrade and John both continued to follow Sherlock even as it became evident he was attempting to go to the park.

"You can't just go without police..."

"I can and will. Don't worry, Lestrade, if I find something I'll let you know. Won't touch it, promise." Lestrade was red in the face but paused, watching John continue to follow Sherlock. John just gave an apologetic smile to Lestrade and turned to watch where he was going.

_Sherlock_

There was no time for outside thought. Lestrade was distracting him with his questions, his moving feet. There was no time even to tell Lestrade to shut up. Sherlock's mind raced, on and on, leading him through city paths that would lead the quickest to the park. Leading him through the park to exactly where the flower patch was to be.

The soft patter of John's feet behind him the whole way oddly enough didn't bother him, rather soothed him. John had felt the need to follow, even though it was obvious-Sherlock thought it was obvious-that he was in his zone.

While walking, feeling the muscles in his legs move, Sherlock took a few moments to focus on John. Without seeing him, Sherlock could tell that he was keeping up rather well. So well, in fact, that Sherlock realized the limp wasn't due to an injury at all. To prove a point, Sherlock locked onto a road that took a few turns before going to the park. John made a noise as he realized Sherlock sped up the pace, but otherwise stayed less than five feet behind at any given time.

When they showed up at the park, Sherlock slowed to an almost completely relaxed walk. John paused for only a few moments before catching back up. He was barely breathing hard thanks to his military training. Sherlock spared a glance towards him to find he was not, in fact, holding his cane. Last place he'd been holding it was at the crime scene.

He hadn't really expected John to forget the cane, but it was definitely a point breaker. Once they found the flower, Sherlock pulled his phone out and messaged Lestrade to bring the cane to 221 B Baker Street later in the day if he got a chance. Then he surveyed the flowers. Shoe prints, one male and the other female. Everything was going well up until suddenly she was, what, pushed? Or tripped. Sherlock found a group of plants pushed down where a hand might have reached out, stopping a fall.

The other print was definitely male, but there was only one and not directly next to the fallen woman. Was there a third party not shown? Sherlock scanned the whole two-foot wide lane that went past the flowers. He ordered John to look the other way for any sign of anything, anything at all. In under five minutes, John called to Sherlock.

"There's blood, here." John pointed and Sherlock eyed the small pebbles embedded in cement to make the walkway. There were maybe half a dozen of them smeared with blood, barely noticeable. They were streaked, as if something dragged through the blood. Considering Sherlock was nearly positive it happened after the stumble by the flowers, he went the direction that didn't lead towards them.

Sure enough, they came across a building directly next to the park that had a similar blood mark, only it was closer shaped like a hand and was about shoulder-height if the woman had been standing. Sherlock kept going, John following close behind, the pair having both eyes peeled for any more signs.

"The door," John breathed and Sherlock stopped instantly and turned. He'd been eyeing the ground and was just about to look up but John had found it first. There was another blood smear, hand print, only maybe six to eight inches taller. John reached up and touched next to it, acting as if pushing against the door.

With a surprised yelp, John tumbled into the doorway. Sherlock, stunned, shot forward and caught John around the waist. Both men straightened and eyed the door.

"I barely touched it with my weight," John mumbled, looking about the room. Sherlock made no comment as he scanned the room. He gently closed the door and looked behind it. The boys searched the main room and easily found, as the place was downright and obviously empty, scuff marks on the floor in front of an open doorway. Layers of dust had been disturbed.

Examining the doorway, Sherlock found small traces of blood on the frame, for there was no door. When the boys went into the new room, greeted with three doors and a staircase, it was discernible where the scuff marks led to at first. Sherlock motioned John to the two left doors and he decided to take the right doorway and then the stairs.


	10. Flat Mates

John

There was positively nothing more he liked than feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins. He nor Sherlock mentioned the possibility of running into anyone in the building, the attacker was beyond most likely gone, but he still felt his heart beating wild. It was tough to fight a smile on his face as Sherlock wordlessly told him to go left.

He did as was told, quietly as possible going down the short hallway and examining the first door. No blood anywhere to be found, no scuffle around the doorway. To be sure, he opened the door and found it empty, nothing but an old bedroom he assumed. Or study, whichever. After doing a thick study of the room, John left as quietly as he'd came. Sherlock was nowhere in sight but the door he was to be looking through was slightly ajar.

John moved to the second door slowly, checking the floor. Absolutely no tell-tale signs of a scuffle on the floor but the door had a small red mark he could only assume was blood. It was just above the handle, as if it were on the back of a hand or knuckle as the handle turned. John checked the handle itself but there were no traces of blood. Briefly, he thought of calling out to Sherlock and making him call Lestrade. He was just about to call out when he heard a shift inside the room.

Instincts taking over, John grabbed the handle and opened the door. Immediately, he slipped into he room, which was bare aside from a metal bed frame, a torn up mattress leaning against one of the walls, and a small bedside table. Not to mention the man half turned to the door, one hand on the mattress and the other half way there.

Without skipping a beat, the man realized John wasn't friend and pivoted his body. Just as John realized the man was a high threat, the man pulled a gun. Before a fire went off, John dodged just in case and smashed into the man. They both crashed into the mattress and John could feel the sharp springs dig into his arm as he braced himself. The man, having not expected this turn of events, had dropped the gun.

Without the immediate threat of being shot, John took as much weight into his hit as possible and elbowed the man in the face. Blood from his nose splattered the mattress and John. Not a small man, the hit having a fairly small effect, John found himself deflecting a blow to his own head.

Regardless of how strong someone was, there were only so many times you could be hit in the head by an elbow or shoulder. John got in exactly three elbow hits and one shoulder hit. The shoulder hit resulted in a blood splatter down his shirt. The man slouched against the mattress and John helped him slowly go to the ground, making as little sound as possible.

John figured this wasn't the only one, considering the relaxed, unworried expression the unconscious man had when John had first opened the door. Sherlock might be in trouble. He left the room, closing the door behind him so maybe they wouldn't get jumped if the man woke up, hopefully disoriented.

Checking the room that Sherlock had apparently left the door ajar in, John found a similar looking set up from the room he'd just fought in. The difference being there was no man or blood to be seen. Which left the stairs.

Sighing quietly, wondering if he should even be surprised that Sherlock would go up without him considering the way he acted earlier at the crime scene, John started up the stairs. For such an old building, the stairs were almost completely quiet. He found that if he stepped as close to the wall or the railing as possible, there was either no noise or barely enough to make it to his ears.

Getting to the top of the stairs, John located two doors, one closed and the other wide open. Dust in front of the closed door was stirred and it looked like someone had stood there and been dragged backward. John looking at the open doorway and felt his adrenaline spike fully once more. There were fresh scrapes on the floor, as if someone tried stopping themselves from being pulled in.

Sherlock.

John rushed forward, not really worried about being quiet anymore. In the doorway, everything slowed down to a perspective. Sherlock stood by the far corner, his hands spread out to his sides. A man was pointing a gun at him, half facing the doorway. Sherlock looked quiet surprised to see John appear with a gun of his own. The man seemed just as surprised but both men recovered quickly, Sherlock a few seconds faster. John aimed the gun straight at the mystery man.

"You will let him go." John said, his voice calm and demanding. The man laughed, his arm not shifting from pointing a gun at Sherlock. Inside, John settled. Calmness he hadn't felt since the battlefield surrounded him like a cloud and he became weightless.

He saw the mans laughter, saw the blood on his body. He'd changed clothes but the blood had stained his hands, wrists, arms. It had stained places on his face and neck and he had some in his hair which was a brown but John just knew it was blood. He was the killer and he was still on the high. John saw the intent in the mans eyes.

Slowly, John took a step forward and the man noticed, his malicious eyes sparking at the dare. John realized the closer he came, the closer Sherlock was to getting shot. Too close already, the trigger finger started to flex. John slipped into a firing stance and shot. The bullet struck the man in the chest, almost dead center. John knew he hit his mark as the mans arm jerked forward and he shot a bullet closer to John than to Sherlock. It tore through the top of the building and was gone in an instant.

John lowered his arms, Sherlock staring at him with a straight face, eyes intense. John watched the murderer fall down, dead before he hit the ground. John had hit his heart, very much so on purpose. The taking of another life didn't even remotely bother John. He'd killed more than enough in the war and it had given him horrific nightmares. In his mind, currently, the adrenaline and calmness decided not to add to the guilt.

Sherlock was by his side in an instant, seeming unsure of what to do.

"John, are you all right?"

"Fine, yes."

"You're covered in blood." Sherlock said this calmly, as if John was on the verge of killing him.

"It's not mine. You should see the other guy." John raised the gun ever so slightly. "He's the one I borrowed this from."

"Oh," Sherlock's expression was beyond emotion, his gaze so intense John could almost feel it burrowing into him. "You just killed him."

"He was going to kill you." John looked up at Sherlock and it was at that exact moment that John realized how happy he was. No depression lingered inside his mind and his shoulder ached from earlier but there was no pain. He'd ran and he'd chased, he'd fought and he'd watched a brilliant man at work. Today had been a wonderful day.

"I suppose he would have pulled the trigger." Sherlock allowed, eyeing John.

"I'll move in. To the flat, I mean. So long as you promise me something."

"Okay, what is it?"

"I get to go along all the time on your cases."

Sherlock

They'd called Lestrade after they'd cleaned John's hand of residue as well as agreed upon a story. The man downstairs had killed the murderer. John had knocked the man unconscious. Lestrade took the story in stride, asked few questions, and the two were off to the apartment together.

Sherlock told John to take a shower. No point in being covered with blood. John agreed and while he was showering, Sherlock texted Mycroft that John needed clothes. After a short few moments, he replied.

_John Watson?_ -MH

_Yes._ -SH

There was a long pause, almost a whole minute. Sherlock held his breath a few moments, wondering if his brother would call. He hoped not. He preferred texting.

_Less than ten minutes. Driver needs time to get there and back_. -MH

Sherlock smiled and put his phone down. If Mycroft was good for one thing, it was finding what people needed. Usually, he abused those things and used them to get his way. With Sherlock, he used it to attempt to make peace with his brother. It rarely worked. Today, Sherlock would remember he owed his brother.

By the time John was out of the shower, Mycroft's man had come and gone, a whole suitcase of clothes specifically from John's flat now in Sherlock's possession. Sherlock knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yes?"

"I have clothes for you. I'm opening the door." Sherlock nudged the door open, not looking inside, and slipped the suitcase through. He immediately closed the door and heard John locate the case, open it, and pause for a few moments.

"These are my clothes."

"Yes."

"From my flat."

"Yes."

" _Sherlock how the hell did you do that_ ," John yelled and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

"Mycroft, my dear Watson. He's government, remember?" Absolute silence answered him and he chuckled, making sure it was loud enough for John to hear.

Sherlock sat down on the couch in the living room and listened to John cursing and mumbling to himself. What had finally led him to agree to move in was a mystery to Sherlock. He had to admit, he was curious about the reaction John had towards killing a man. Yet, war does strange things. If he was okay with killing a man, why does he have nightmares?

Having a moment of recollection, Sherlock thought back to hearing the name just one more time. Maybe it would help give him some insight. Mrs. Hudson had called. A man named John was on his way to see the flat. "Watson. Nice fellow, sounds like. I'll not say your name, Dearie."

Sherlock had felt excited but at the same time more than a little irate. John had been a center for great frustration during school. They'd never gotten along and it was difficult to pinpoint exactly why. Sherlock would normally have forgotten about such a nuisance but for some reason, he'd forgotten to forget.

Walking through the flat and seeing him for the first time in years, Sherlock had been stunned and almost immediately attracted. He'd never been attracted to any particular person before but John made a small flutter. He had broader shoulders, cropped hair. He'd filled out just beautifully, none of the previous childish features about him. The injuries he'd sustained overseas, Afghanistan of Iraq Sherlock didn't know, were not horribly visible but the sleepless state induced by nightmares was obvious. There was a pang in his chest he couldn't recognize as he'd looked at John, seeing the boy he'd known that had grown into a man and then been broken down. At least, as Sherlock found, he was still full of fight.

Sherlock had then attempted, while on the case, to see how far he could push John. Being okay with following Sherlock or knowing about his escapades was one thing but seeing the reaction John had was another. Sherlock had not been disappointed as John not only ran on his bad leg, nor left his cane behind, but had fought with his bad arm, as the blood patterns suggested. The therapist probably had it wrong, if she thought John was suffering from PTSD. No, he wasn't, for he actually missed the excitement.

Smiling coyly, Sherlock waited patiently for his cursing, flustered flat mate to join him in the lounge.


End file.
